


take heed of loving me

by RhysennM



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Biospecialist - Freeform, Breaking Up & Making Up, F/M, Hydra Grant Ward, Hydra Jemma Simmons, Love/Hate, Sexual Content, but not really idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-10
Updated: 2014-10-10
Packaged: 2018-02-20 15:35:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2433941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RhysennM/pseuds/RhysennM
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sheets shriek beneath them - folding, twisting, creasing as he moves on top of her like a thing possessed. She can feel the mask their skin has created, a filmy curtain against the cold night air. And together they climb, breathing harsh and quick, whispering things they never meant to know.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	take heed of loving me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [janeaustenlover](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=janeaustenlover).



The sheets shriek beneath them - folding, twisting, creasing as he moves on top of her like a thing possessed. She can feel the mask their skin has created, a filmy curtain against the cold night air. And together they climb, breathing harsh and quick, whispering things they never meant to know.

And when they fall, immediately they pull apart. He moves huskily to his edge of the bed, large feet grazing the stone floor. She lies quietly for a moment, chocolate hair splashed against the virgin cotton. Over his shoulder, he tosses her a glance. A black sweater is slung over his desk chair, and he throws it at her with a cough.

“What?” she says, catching the cashmere in her small fingers, sitting up to pull it on.

And he doesn’t even look her way. “It’s cold.”

“You’re not wearing anything.”

“I’m not cold,” he says, and she begins to pull the sweater back off.

“I’m not either.”

Through the window, it is snowing.

\-----

She is sitting at the kitchen table with Dresden hands clasping a porcelain cup. Waving hair tucked fiercely behind her ears, she looks like a wild little thing. Her _(his?)_ jumper does nothing to hide the protruding bones, her jagged collar. It is red and worn, and she remembers a time when it was clean and crisp and smelled like him - like cloves and pepper and lemon zest. Now it is ruined. They ruin everything.

Pepper and lemon mingle in her senses before she even actually hears him - before she actually sees him. His presence is claustrophobic like that, overwhelming in every aspect. She used to like that about him. Now she isn’t sure how she feels.

“Hey,” he says when he enters the kitchen. There’s a rasp in his voice that wasn’t there two weeks ago, and she can just make out the dark stubble on his chin. Nevertheless, he’s dressed as sharply as ever - charcoal coat, slacks and devastatingly black boots. Those are new.

“Hi.” It’s all she can manage. She knows she looks pathetic in her _(his?)_ ratty jumper - once immaculate jumper. She knows he notices. And she knows he is looking at her critically, like something unpleasant has dripped onto her chin, and he doesn’t know whether to tell her or not.

“What are you up to?”

“Tea.” The cup in her hands is half-empty and cold. That is not what she is up to.

Silence.

“Are you alright?”

She wants to scream. Instead she speaks, she asks, she demands. “Where were you?”

“Does it matter?”

“Maybe.”

Silence, but now their eyes are hitting. Black and hazel fluctuating in the artificial lighting of their kitchen - her kitchen - maybe his kitchen? She doesn’t know anymore.

“I was at my brother’s.”

“Really?”

“Are you really asking me that?” He sounds upset, though just barely.

“I wasn’t the one who disappeared for two weeks.”

He glares. “And you didn’t want me to go?”

She cannot help but stand. It feels like the right place in the conversation to do so. It feels like she is a character in a script, and her directions say to stand. So she stands.

But instead of holding her ground, she turns to drop her cup in the sink like a mouse. How pathetic.

“You made it pretty clear what your feelings were, Grant.”

“Jemma.” She doesn’t know what he means by that - by just saying her name. She can’t think of any way to respond either.

And she realizes she really wants to cry. She wants to break down and just cry.

“What?” she asks. If you’re going to address a person, you should at least follow up with something remotely profound to say.

“I -” He’s caught off guard. “I don’t know.”

“I don’t know either.”

This time, she walks out the door.

It is snowing.

\-----

Ward and I first started fucking my first winter at Hydra Research Lab. I was right out of university, and he had been working there since his superior disappeared. There was something so utterly commanding about his presence there. It was obvious he didn’t know shit about science, but it didn’t matter in the end. He commanded business like he commanded people - ruthlessly.

I know. I know I’m a fool. What the fuck was I thinking?

To be honest, I wasn’t. I was a sexually frustrated young woman and I wasn’t thinking. How could I be? He was just so different from the boys I used to know - dangerous, deceitful, and deadly. I liked that. I liked that he fucked me until it hurt, until the bed frame forced an imprint in the wall, until my lip bled from the screams I tried to suppress. No one would ever fuck me like that - not with so much heat and passion. The short touches and quick kisses I shared with my previous boyfriend had been sweet, timid, and utterly heartbreaking.

It had been a cold, snowed in winter. Fucking Ward was like breathing again after drowning in a cold cup of chicken noodle soup.

That was all it was.

Really.

I didn’t realize it was snowing.

\-----

He was lounging in the doorway, his head to the side, a faint smile touching the corner of his mouth. In the light now, she could see that he wore a white shirt, stained all over with blood, some of it dried to rusty stains, some of it fresh and new. He was thickly covered in blood - his hands, his shirt, his lap, even his hair.

"Not mine." he whispered tiredly. "Mostly."

She looks sleepy and angry and scared with bandages in her milky shaking hands and messy hair wildly curling on her shoulders.

"One day it'll be all yours, if you don't stop playing war."

He was not touching her, but Jemma imagined that she could feel the drift of his fingertips across her hair, her cheek, her lips.

"You will prevent that," he said, so softly that she could barely hear him. "It is you who will remind me of what is real."

Snowflakes are falling lazily from the overcast sky.

\-----

She jumps on the bed with a ferocious giggle. Her laughing only increases with his sleepy groans. “Wake up!”

“Sod off.” His head is under the covers again.

“Grant…” she croons, sticking her lips to his ear, reaching to caress his bare chest. “Come on, wake up.”

“Too early.”

“What was that?” she asks coyly. “Really, darling, use your words.” It’s a phrase she’s heard her mother use more than once.

Suddenly, his heads pops up from below the sheets, all scowls and bed head. He looks too funny, and she cannot help but laugh.

“Bluestocking.”

“Prat.”

He jumps up to tackle her, grabbing her firmly and smothering her with nipping kisses. She barely fights, laughing as he tickles her and wrapping her arms around his neck. He looks at her very seriously just before dropping a kiss upon her nose.

“Now, my dear bluestocking,” he murmurs into her ear, “to what do I owe the pleasure of such a wake-up call?”

She cannot help but smile a real genuine, happy smile.

“It’s snowing.”

And outside, it is snowing.

\-----

“Do you want my coat?”

“I’m not cold.”

“I’m not either.”

After all, it is snowing.

\-----

"You're drunk."

"I'm certainly not."

She let go of his shirt and giggled helplessly against his mouth, leaning into him. He pulled back a fraction, and the black eyes looked down at her, half-lidded and sleepy and curious.

"Nobody I've kissed has ever laughed at me before," he said, amused. "Let's see how long you can keep that up if I do this," he said, with a wicked sort of smirk, and his mouth went to her ear, and did something very interesting there that made her knees turn to water. Now she felt as if she were going to faint. His lips traveled down to her throat, and did something there that was even more interesting and she found that she wasn't giggling any more, only clutching at him, her hands winding into his hair, as his mouth moved back up to hers, and all thought dissolved, or at least all ability to separate thoughts into cogent threads of consciousness.

All that mattered was his mouth on hers, his heart pounding against her own, and she wanted to drown in it, wanted to drown in him, in the hard grip of his arms on her back, the softness of his mouth, the pressure of his body.

It's the night before Christmas, and there's a blizzard outside.

\-----

I never liked snowball fights - too great a chance of failure. I used to think she was stupid back at Hydra academy, flinging snow at her friends, no doubt catching a cold and God knows what else. It was really pathetic actually, watching the vulgar spectacle. I remember wanting to shout at them. I remember wanting to shout at them to stop - to tell them how foolish and childish they were being.

But something always stopped me.

I remember wanting to shout at them.

But most of all I remember her chocolate hair splashed against the virgin snow.

It all seems very surreal now.

\-----

"A date." her icy voice burned his heart.

"It's because of Skye, right?" he hissed at her, "she's a job, Simmons, don't make it personal."

"I know, I'm being a professional here" she looked directly in his eye. "Agent Triplett asked me out as a co-worker, a team mate." her smirk is deadly blade. "He's is a job, Ward, don't make it personal."

In three seconds, maybe less, he closed the distance between them and she sucked in her breath as Ward pushed her back against the wall, and his hands found their way into her hair and tangled there, pulling the curls tight, making her wince. This was an exchange of fire. Her mouth burned on his, her small hot hands cupping the back of his neck, her sharp teeth tracing his lower lip. His body responded fiercely, instantly, his mouth opening, tasting the inside of her mouth, his hands winding in her hair, tugging her against him. He had tasted serums before that tasted like this kiss did: fiery, bitter, necessary as breathing. His bones melted and ran, his blood seethed in his veins. His tortured lungs strained for air, but he could no more have pulled away from her that he could have opened his chest and ripped out his own heart.

Is it snowing out there?

\-----

“If he asked me, I would have married him.”

“He didn’t ask.” Skye said quietly.

“He didn’t have to.”

\-----

It’s been snowing for three nights straight, and the stoop is slippery with ice. Nevertheless, he is still standing there. He is still waiting for the door to open. He is still waiting to come home.

Finally, his prayers are answer. “Miss Skye,” he greets with a cocky smirk, “is Simmons home?”

“It’s Fitz now.”

He flatlines.

The smirk is gone. He can feel the color dripping from his face, his insides shriveling at the very thought. He is collapsing. He can feel his esophagus closing, his eyes spinning, the slippery stoop coming up to meet his nose.

And yet, he is still standing straight, however ready to curl over and die.

Skye just smiles, leaning closer to stage whisper her next words- no doubt torturous sentiments such as _“I told you so”_ or _“tough luck, Nazi boy”._

“It’s not 'miss Skye' anymore,” she says. “It’s 'mrs Fitz' now.”

\-----

And maybe, just maybe, it is snowing.

**Author's Note:**

> idk what this fic is, i just have A LOT of biospecialist feels


End file.
